


Everything's A Battle

by QueenAng



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Other, PWP, Reunion Sex, Rough Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng
Summary: Jazz comes back from a long mission running hot with post-battle energy."Fight me," Jazz suggested, and Prowl did.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 1
Kudos: 139





	Everything's A Battle

Tumbling into berth with Prowl isn’t anything new to Jazz. It had been a while since their last coupling; the war was taking its toll on every soldier, and Jazz’s missions into enemy territory became longer and more dangerous with every passing one. The reunions always made up for it, though.

For two orns, Jazz had been part of the Decepticons, masquerading as a transferred commander to gather intelligence on the Decepticon force’s movements. It had been time spent fighting – mostly other Decepticons, sometimes his own commanding officer insisting it was time to abandon the mission and come home every time something went slightly awry in the plan. He had come home scattered with fresh and healing welds, which Ratchet had thoroughly checked over and cleared.

“Go,” Ratchet had told them, after snapping at Jazz to sit still for the tenth time or so. “He isn’t dying or anything, but I expect to be able to do a full check-up after the briefing tomorrow!”

Jazz had pulled Prowl out the med-bay as soon as Ratchet said “he isn’t dying”.

They had barely made it to their berth-room before Jazz shoved Prowl against the wall and kissed him senseless. Prowl could feel the hammering of his fuel pump, the thrum of his spark. His engine had kept up a steady low growl since he transformed at the entrance to the base. The exhilaration of the final battle and the ensuing chase had yet to wear off.

“I missed you,” Prowl murmured between kisses.

“I love you,” Jazz replied.

Jazz pulled Prowl away from the wall and flush against his frame as he stumbled backwards toward their berth. Jazz had memorized the layout of their berth-room early on in case of an attack, though knowledge of the placement of every piece of furniture came in handy in times like these. He spun Prowl around before his pedes hit the edge of the berth and pushed him back.

“Berth. Now,” he said, and Prowl crawled willingly onto the frame and fell back as Jazz moved over him.

Prowl was wonderfully compliant. His lip-plates parted instantly when Jazz probed at them with his glossa. His legs fell open when Jazz shoved a knee roughly between them. His servo brushed the cables of Prowl’s neck, and Prowl’s chin tilted up to give him better access. It was great, it was so easy, so _nice_ , and not enough.

“Fight me,” Jazz suggested breathlessly.

He pulled back to gauge Prowl’s reaction. For a brief moment, his expression was blank as he drew in heavy vents, his cooling fans whirring at their top speed. Then, the briefest flash of mischief entered his optics, and the next thing Jazz knew, he was catching a fist aimed at his nasal ridge.

He quickly caught Prowl’s fist and pinned it against the berth across his body, limiting the movement of his other arm. He heard the gears moving in Prowl’s leg and readjusted so the knee meant for his codpiece instead hit his shin.

Prowl was venting harder than before, and Jazz could almost see the calculations Prowl was making as he looked over their current position with piercing optics. He had to know that Jazz was by far the better fighter, especially at hand-to-hand. There was no conceivable way he would win, but Prowl struggled against his grip nonetheless.

Jazz readjusted their position, nudging Prowl’s legs back apart. Before Prowl could attempt another kick, he had his hips situated flush against Prowl’s panel, too close for Prowl to fight him off with his legs.

He went for Prowl’s throat next. Prowl twisted his helm down, trying to cut off his access, but a hard push to the underside of his chin and a none-to-gentle bite to the top of his main cable had him freezing. Jazz, unlike many Autobots, had permanently fanged teeth, more than capable of tearing through cables if need be.

He nipped down Prowl’s throat, following the main line. Prowl arched hard under him, pedes pushing in the berth, trying to dislodge his position over him. Jazz didn’t budge, and put more pressure on the arm pinned across Prowl’s chassis. He heard the faint whir of gears as Prowl fought against him. They were about the same size, but Jazz had kept bots bigger than Prowl pinned for longer.

He drew back just far enough to see Prowl’s face and smiled down at him, widely enough to show off the fangs he had brushed down Prowl’s neck. “Spec ops, you know,” he said. “I’ve got mods and weapons even Red can’t identify.”

The brief look of apprehension that crossed Prowl’s face seemed real enough.

Jazz swept Prowl’s servos over his helm and returned his attention to Prowl’s throat, leaving bruising kisses in his wake. With his free servo, he reached into his subspace and drew out a small circular clip. He knew the on-switch’s location by heart and flicked it on before touching it gently to the front of Prowl’s neck. Prowl twisted again, but a punishing bite to his fuel line once again made him cease. Prowl hissed. Jazz tasted the slight tang of spilt energon in his mouth and swept his glossa soothingly over the puncture wound, Prowl whimpering at the barrage of stimulation.

“Baby, I haven’t even gotten started yet,” Jazz said. Prowl’s response was a hard buck of his hips, which didn’t manage to do anything but grind his panel roughly against Jazz’s. Jazz muffled his groan against Prowl’s neck.

He swept up to nip lightly below the circular region at the side of Prowl’s helm, right below where he knew his audio receptor was located. “It’s just a vocalizer inhibitor,” he murmured, and when Prowl didn’t make any objections, he snapped it into place over Prowl’s vocalizer. He heard the click and quiet hum as it powered to life.

He leaned up from Prowl’s neck, observing the red dot on his throat locking his speech, the pinpricks of energon on the cable alongside it. Prowl’s mouth was slack, his vents gasping for air. He hadn’t even spiked him yet, and he already looked thoroughly debased.

His panel folded back, his extending so quickly he felt lightheaded. With his free hand, he groped around Prowl’s panel until he found the manual trigger to release it, leaving Prowl bare and open. He could feel the heat radiating from Prowl’s exposed valve.

Though Prowl had been acquiescent while Jazz opened his panel, he seemed to realize now that this was his last chance to throw Jazz off. He bucked again, but Jazz had a servo pressed hard against his valve. His vents spluttered as his node rubbed hard against Jazz’s servo, his mouth hanging open in what would have been a gasp.

Prowl tried recoiling next, pushing himself up on the berth. The arm that Jazz had pinned kept him from moving, and upon his relaxing back down, Jazz slipped a finger inside him.

He was so wet, so hot inside. His calipers opened slightly to accommodate Jazz as he began to stretch him. A second finger, and Jazz began to thrust them roughly inside him. Fast, hard, and Prowl arched off the berth, kept down by his pinned arms and Jazz over him. Prowl didn’t seem to react to the third finger being pushed inside him. His jaw was clamped shut, lip-plates drawn back in something like a silent snarl. He curled up one of his legs as though planning on trying to buck Jazz off again, and Jazz drew his fingers out to grip one of his headlights, tightening it in a warning pressure.

When Prowl laid his leg back down, Jazz released his hold and grabbed his spike, lining himself up with Prowl’s sopping valve. He pressed inside, and Prowl once more arched off the berth, pedes scrambling for a hold. His calipers squeezed tight around Jazz’s spike, not letting up as he pushed further. Jazz moved slowly, feeling the pressure of each caliper inside. He paused once he had hilted himself as deeply as this position would allow; he could feel the gel wall separating Prowl’s gestation tank against the tip of his spike.

Jazz bent over Prowl as he started to move, first in slow, shallow thrusts. He claimed Prowl’s mouth in a kiss, which Prowl stubbornly tried to turn away from. His servo latched onto Prowl’s jaw, moving his face back into Jazz’s reach. He pulled his mouth, exploring with his glossa knowing Prowl was unable to bite.

Jazz could interface softly. They did it often: in the early mornings before shifts, after late nights of tedious paperwork, during their off times when they had nothing but time to explore each other. Their lovemaking could be slow and gentle. That wasn’t what Jazz wanted now. He wanted it hard and fast. He wanted Prowl’s frame bent below his, doorwings flared out against the berth. He wanted Prowl’s jaw slack and open, ready to accept his glossa. He wanted the wet heat of Prowl’s valve clenched tightly around his spike as he drove in. Prowl could take it, whatever he gave.

His thrusts became deeper, faster. He wasn’t feeling the stretch of Prowl’s calipers reluctantly giving way anymore; it was a blur of tight, wet heat. Prowl’s jaw had stopped fighting his servo and gone slack. His legs had fallen weakly to either side of Jazz’s knees.

Jazz knew he was getting close to his end, and the shudder of Prowl’s body under him as he overloaded didn’t help any. His valve felt tighter, like it was trying to milk the transfluid from Jazz’s spike. He groaned, moving his mouth from Prowl’s back down his throat. There was no resistance from Prowl as he pushed his head up to fully expose the delicate plating.

He didn’t have the mind left to bite carefully enough to not damage Prowl’s lines, so he settled for nipping at the hard plating. He’d have dents at the worst, but no spilt energon.

He thrust hard once last time before overloading into Prowl’s valve. He groaned into Prowl’s neck. Below him, Prowl’s frame jolted at the sudden heat spurted into him.

Jazz rose up slowly, letting go of Prowl’s chin softly. He hoped he hadn’t gripped hard enough to dent anything. Prowl’s servos were next as Jazz rose to his knees, pulling out from Prowl’s sodden, twitching valve. Prowl’s panel slid shut, trapping Jazz’s fluid inside him. Jazz carefully disconnected the vocalizer inhibitor on Prowl’s throat.

Prowl’s first vocalization was a burst of static. Jazz gently stroked the area where he had clipped the inhibitor. They were easy to put on, but not as quick to wear off. He kissed the mark left behind, this time keeping his fangs from touching Prowl’s lines.

Jazz kissed his chin next, then the side of his mouth, before finally capturing his lips. “I win,” he murmured into the kiss.

“No,” Prowl purred back, “I think I did.”


End file.
